


No time runs against the king

by oddishly



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Pendragon Returns (Merlin), Canon Era, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e13 The Diamond of the Day, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:41:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28159935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oddishly/pseuds/oddishly
Summary: Arthur, or whoever it is that’s pretending to be Arthur—right down to a heavy white scar in his abdomen where Mordred’s blade had been—takes a long time to wake up.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 103
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2020





	No time runs against the king

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlins_little_sister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlins_little_sister/gifts).



> Happy holidays, merlins_little_sister. I picked and chose from various among your prompts--I really hope you like the result!
> 
> Endless thanks to [furloughday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/furloughday/pseuds/furloughday) and [howshouldipresume](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howshouldipresume/pseuds/howshouldipresume) who read this and told me how to fix it, you're fantastic :3

A year later, Merlin is wandering the grounds for deadly nightshade. In the chilly moonlight, no one bothers him when he looks busy, doing important work for Gaius or perhaps the queen. His basket is full of daffodil bulbs, yew leaves, and oleander, and when he rounds the edge of the castle to find the bush Gaius directed him to, he nearly misses the person coming from the other direction.

“Sorry, I—”

Merlin draws his hood closer around his face and takes another couple of steps through the shadows away from the speaker. The bush is right where Gaius said it would be, its branches almost completely hidden by the lowest stones of the castle where it can’t hurt anyone but those seeking it out. Merlin kneels and takes a kerchief out of his pocket to protect his hands.

“Merlin?”

Merlin doesn’t reply.

“Merlin, I realise you must be out of practice—”

Merlin’s breath stops.

“—and I recognise that Guinevere can be a soft touch around those significantly less capable. But the dim-witted act failed when you revealed your magic rather dramatically before my death. What exactly is so important about those berries that you can’t delay for a time?”

Merlin turns in disbelief.

Arthur is tall and thick built, eyes bright like he hasn’t been dead for a year. He’s in the shirt he was wearing when he died but he’s not in the chainmail Merlin sent him away in, and his sword is apparently still at the bottom of the lake. He looks like he might have just got up and out of bed, ready for Merlin to dress him and bring him breakfast, only right now he is also shivering, seeing as it's the middle of the night.

“Arthur,” says Merlin blankly.

"Yes: Arthur. And as I've been saying--"

Merlin drops the plants, the basket, and vanishes the distance between them to wrap his arms around Arthur, cutting him off by hugging him so tight it’s hard to draw breath. Arthur is warm and breathing and he’s holding Merlin as close as Merlin is holding him. Arthur is alive.

Merlin clings tighter.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Arthur is murmuring into Merlin’s shoulder, his neck, voice rough but tinged with happiness. He strokes the back of Merlin’s head. “I’m here.”

Merlin drops his head into the crook of Arthur’s neck and breathes in, trying to get himself under control. His eyes are wet, he realises, and so is Arthur’s shirt where his face rests.

He draws a long breath and forces himself to relax his grip. 

“That’s more like it,” Arthur says with a hint of a smile toying around his mouth. Merlin has missed that smile so much. Seeing it again feels like an arrow to the chest.

He clears his throat and takes a step back, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. “You came back,” he says. Joy is flooding through him. He stares Arthur and up and down, not trusting himself to say anything else, finding it hard to switch between the knowledge that Arthur is dead, and the incontrovertible fact that he is also standing here alive in front of him. "Arthur, how are you here? Wait, no--what took you so long? Have you been--where were you? How are you back?" He can't decide on any one question. "Why now? You took your bloody time."

“Look who’s talking,” says Arthur, crooked smile growing. “I’ve been searching the grounds for you for hours.”

“Hours?” Merlin laughs. “Can’t have been looking that hard, I’ve been out here all night.” He gestures to the plants now strewn around his feet. “I’ve been waiting for you for a _year_. God, Arthur. Couldn't you find your way back sooner?” 

“A—a year?”

“Or a little over,” says Merlin. He stays where he is, feeling something prickle in the back of his head. “Gwen's festival of coronation was three weeks ago.”

“But.” Arthur is pale, a spectre in the moonlight. “That’s impossible.”

“You think I could forget?” Merlin tries to smile. “Or that the kingdom could?” 

“But I saw you yesterday. I only remember--I mean, it’s been a day.” Arthur’s voice has gone soft and scratchy and doesn’t sound like his own. He looks uncertainly at Merlin. “Thank goodness I found you first. Or you found me. If it’s truly been a year then no one else would believe it was me.” 

Merlin aches to reach for him again. Something in Arthur’s voice stops him though. 

“You've really been here for hours? I can't believe no one saw you.” Merlin frowns. “Not even one of the guards?” 

“No, that’s what I said. I was looking for you first. I know Gaius has you pick nightshade at the full moon.”

“I’ve passed three guards in the last hour alone,” Merlin says. “They all saw me.” 

He takes another step back, shaking his head a bit. Arthur’s right, no one else _would_ believe it. They’d think that they’d gone mad, first. Or that Arthur was a shade. Or a premonition. 

And maybe they’d be right.

“Why does it matter?” says Arthur, frustrated. “According to you, I’ve been dead for the last year. You know how many times I’ve snuck out under cover of darkness—well, you know some of them at least, you can’t have followed me every time—”

“Things have changed,” says Merlin slowly, looking closer. God, he’s been a fool. He knows neither that Arthur is really alive nor that this is really Arthur. All he knows is that he’s spent a year—just a year, nothing to how much longer Merlin has yet to live without him—desperately wanting Arthur to come back and now, suddenly, here he is, and Merlin hasn’t given him even a word of challenge.

Merlin chokes against a flash of hurt and anger, thinking of the harm he could have invited on the castle if he’d let his heart get any further away with him.

“Merlin—"

He throws his hand out, pinning whoever or whatever he's allowed to lead him astray to the wall in an instant. “What are you?”

The thing gasps and writhes against the stone. It’s a convincing image, and it hurts to think of what it could have been. But Merlin has seen Arthur in dark spaces and corners ever since his death, following after Merlin on his walk from the kitchens to his bed, haunting his dreams, standing behind Gwen’s shoulder while she addresses the knights, and Merlin knows better now.

“Answer me!”

The creature chokes. “It’s me—Arthur!”

Merlin clenches his fingers into a fist. “You can’t be. Arthur is dead.” It hurts him to say the words like it did only happen yesterday.

The thing opens its mouth again, expression flawless in its outrage. “For god’s sake, Merlin, didn’t we _just_ cover this? I was dead, now I’m alive! Stranger things have happened!”

Merlin doesn’t want to let something that can’t be Arthur continue to wear Arthur’s face and speak with his voice. He makes a yanking motion with his outstretched hand and the creature’s head falls slowly, gently to his chest with the loss of consciousness.

Arthur, or whoever it is that’s pretending to be Arthur—right down to a heavy white scar in his abdomen where Mordred’s blade had been—takes a long time to wake up.

“Quiet,” says Merlin when he does, many hours into the night, and whispers a spell that will make sure of it. And then another sleep spell into the next room so that Gaius doesn’t wake up either. Just to be on the safe side.

They’re in Merlin’s room, Arthur on his bed and chained by the wrists to hooks that Merlin has magicked out of the wall. Merlin, sat with his back to the wall on the other side of the room, watches his expression move through bleary-eyed pain to confusion to anger when he notices the restraints.

His gaze settles on Merlin and his eyes narrow. It’s uncanny. The tone of his face is just right.

Merlin shuts his eyes. It would take someone extraordinarily close to Arthur to be this convincing. Merlin reassesses the vanishingly small list of people he trusts.

He swallows his rage and opens his eyes again. “Now. I’m going to let you speak. You’re going to tell me who you are and who sent you. Quietly. If you scream I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

Arthur’s jaw—whoever’s it really is—his jaw sets. He nods, and Merlin lifts the silencing spell.

“ _Merlin_ , if you don’t unchain me—”

Merlin waves his hand and Arthur is forced into silence again. “I told you to be quiet. What are you and who sent you?”

Arthur stares. The high moon gives his skin a cold grey sheen that helps Merlin remember that this isn’t really him. He breaks the spell again.

“Arthur Pendragon. Recently dead king of Camelot, newly alive and currently talking to my good-for-nothing manservant—”

“Last chance—”

“If anyone could recognise me I’d have thought it would be you, you know.”

“You’re not Arthur,” says Merlin loudly. “Arthur is dead.”

“Not anymore!”

Merlin, heart pounding, is now on his feet. Arthur looks challengingly up at him from the bed, his mouth thin, skin pale, and if this was really Arthur, it would hurt Merlin to look at him.

“I watched Arthur die,” snaps Merlin. “I carried him to Avalon and sent his body alone across the lake. Just because you stole his face doesn’t mean anything.” He thinks back to their conversation outside the castle. “If you really were Arthur, you know how many times we’ve had to protect the kingdom from someone who wasn’t who they said they were. Well,” he corrects himself. “You’d know some of those times.”

Arthur’s expression changes, eyes narrowing and lips going tight. Merlin watches with a painful sort of fascination. “I certainly remember when you told me you’re not who you pretended to be, after ten years of giving you my trust.” 

“You understand what I’m talking about, then. You understand why I can’t trust my own eyes.”

Arthur’s jaw tenses. He says, “Merlin, you idiot. Who else would I be?”

Merlin scowls. He could be someone under an illusion spell, sent by Kings Lot or Odin in lands where magic runs wild and could easily be harnessed to destabilise Gwen’s already shaky hold on the kingdom. He could be a sorcerer taking advantage of the disarray, making an ill-advised attempt at breaking the throne, or one of the northern lords causing trouble. Or he could be one of the people Merlin had trusted from among the knights or of importance to Gaius. Or he could just be another figment of Merlin’s imagination.

Merlin stands straighter and tries to speak clearly and without emotion. “Why are you here?”

“Because it was this, or stay at the foot of the lake in the forest for the rest of my life.”

“The forest?”

“Yes, the forest. I woke up on an island in the middle of the lake and swam to shore and there was the forest you carried me through. You might remember that part, I was dying at the time. I woke up and walked back through it and now I’m here. In Camelot.” Arthur gestures with the same proprietary casualness he’d used when he was alive. “Where I’m king. Or where I once was.”

This doesn't help Arthur's case. The lake is a three-day walk away and Arthur clearly hadn't done that on no food and with no weapons to hand. Still, thinks Merlin, rather more to the point: “Gwen is queen now. Can’t have both.”

“Yes. Well. Lines of succession can be complicated.”

“Nothing complicated about a dead king.”

Arthur raises a sceptical eyebrow, and Merlin, to his surprise, wants to laugh, so happy to see his face he feels wretched with it. He clamps down the urge, a little horrified.

Of course Arthur notices, his mouth curving. Merlin waves him back into silence and achingly familiar irritation in his eyes.

Clouds are racing outside the window, casting Arthur into darkness and bright moonlight by turns. There’s no way it can be him. But his eyes are exasperated, fists clenching and unclenching in his shackles, and Merlin wants it to be him so badly. 

He grits his teeth, and this time, Arthur remains silent when he takes the spell off.

“Prove it,” says Merlin, trying to stay calm. “How can I be sure it’s you?”

Something tightens in his chest when Arthur makes a gesture uncommonly close to the one he used to when he was thinking about throwing Merlin in the stocks, or threatening to. “I don’t know, you’re the magic one. Do a spell or something.” He makes a face. “Nothing that’ll turn me into something unpleasant, of course.”

“You’re asking me to use magic on you?”

Arthur shrugs. “I trust you,” he says, infuriating as he ever has been. “Besides. What else are you going to do with me? Unless you want someone else to kill me before you can, and I don’t think that’s what you’re angling for. Of course if it means you’ll believe me next time I’m back—although who knows when that’ll be, or even if—” 

“God, shut _up_.” Merlin rubs a hand wearily over his face. “Fine. You can stay here for the rest of the night. I’ll work out what to do with you in the morning.”

Arthur tips his head. “Fine,” he says, lip curling. “Can I at least have a decent pillow?”

“This one was good enough for me when you were alive.”

Arthur glowers. “You know, I thought you’d be glad to see me. Stupid of me. Why would you be glad to see your friend? Well I say friend,” his mouth narrows for a moment. “Your king, at least. I suppose I don’t know anymore if you ever were my—”

“The Arthur I mourned wouldn’t need to ask me that,” says Merlin loudly. “Maybe this helps you see the problem.” 

Arthur’s mouth settles into a thin line. He’s retreating into that cool, guarded version of himself that, even not knowing if it’s really him, or how it could be him, makes Merlin’s chest hurt. He has the part of Arthur that could be petulant, even cruel, when he was feeling insecure just right. It’s actually quite impressive, Merlin thinks with the small part of him that isn’t miserable and trying to hide it, just how alike to Arthur this person is.

“All right then,” Arthur replies. He pulls against the chains as much as he’s able. “If you can’t manage the pillow, can you take these off me? I’m never going to sleep like this.”

Merlin makes a gesture like he’s pulling a boat to the shore; the chains extend out of the wall so that Arthur can lie down on the bed. 

Just like the Arthur that Merlin mourned, Arthur doesn’t ask about where Merlin will sleep, or if he will. He just lies down on his side and shuts his eyes, and in moments his breath slows.

Merlin vanishes the chains as soon as he’s sure Arthur is asleep, and only falls asleep himself as the moon is setting, stone floor cold on his shoulder, Arthur’s form dark and alive in his bed.

He wakes unpleasantly soon after to Arthur falling off the narrow mattress. An hour or two later again and the sun is rising, and Merlin isn’t convinced he’s going to be able make it through the day without doing something stupid. And he still isn’t sure that he has it in him to treat this Arthur lookalike as someone he might need to kill later. 

So he decides that it’s the real thing, at least until proven otherwise, and settles in to wait.

“Merlin?” mumbles Arthur as soon as he wakes up again, and this time seems to notice that he’s not in chains anymore. His expression clears. “Ah. You got your head screwed back on.”

“Keep your voice down. Yes. For now. But if you try to leave I’m going to chain you up again.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. 

“Look, as far as anyone knows who isn’t me, you’re still dead,” Merlin says. And even he isn’t sure about that. It’s just easier, less work, to assume that it’s the truth, and he’ll deal with his own feelings on the subject later. “If I try to tell anyone that you’re not dead, Gwen will have to throw me out of the kingdom for sedition.”

“‘Sedition,’” Arthur says. “It’s only been a year.” He even manages to say it without looking like he’s about to pass out.

“Yes. I told you. Things have changed. The manservant to the son of one of the most anti-magic monarchs in all of Albion’s history returns to Camelot reporting that the king is dead, without a body to prove it. Would you take him at his word? Would you allow that Gwen has the right to the throne?”

“Well of course I’d have questions,” says Arthur impatiently. “But you are the same person to Guinevere as you ever were.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Merlin murmurs. He looks at Arthur. “Now. Do I need to chain you down again, or will you agree to stay here til we work out what to do with you?”

“I have no desire to waste my time convincing other men—or women, my wife in particular springs to mind—not to execute me,” says Arthur curtly as he stands. “I’ll stay here.”

“Good,” says Merlin.

Arthur looks expectant.

“What?”

“Food?” Arthur hisses. “I haven’t eaten in quite some time, Merlin. I’m hungry.”

“Oh, right.” 

Merlin sneaks past Gaius, still asleep even though the sun has been up for some time—Merlin remembers the spell he cast last night and hurries on, no time to undo it now—and down the stairs and past the servants’ quarters. Merlin’s isn’t so familiar a face in the kitchens anymore, but there’s nothing like the appearance of a person trying to get back to normal to help wheedle a plate of sausages, bread and cheese out of a crotchety old cook, Merlin thinks.

He makes it back unseen and hands Arthur the plate of food. “Gaius is still asleep, enjoy.”

Arthur snorts. “I’ve waited a year for this. It’d better be good.”

“You said it felt like yesterday--you know what, never mind. Eat up.”

“Don’t rush me, _Mer_ lin, I can still have you hanged.” Arthur raises his eyebrows and a forkful of sausage at the same time. “And if not now, then at whatsoever time we get me back on the throne. You’ll never know it’s coming.”

Merlin watches him eat, that same look of pleasure on his face that he always got from a good plate of food. The bread was, of course, baked this morning and is probably still warm from the oven, dripping in rich, salty butter, the apples new and golden from the Queen’s private west-facing garden and the cheese sharp and crumbly. Arthur is enjoying his meal, mopping up the grease from the sausages with the crust and licking his fingers. And the sun is rising above the window to warm the stone floor.

Merlin’s eyes well up and he turns abruptly away. It’s too much, watching Arthur eat fruit as if Merlin hadn’t been longing for moments like these for a year. They could be about to set off on a hunt, or spending an interminable day in council meetings, or a tournament that Arthur would undoubtedly win. They could be setting out on horseback to some distant corner of the kingdom to introduce the citizenry to their king and his most loyal knights, Arthur marvelling along the journey at the beauty of Camelot and her people. As it could have been every day for the last year.

There’s the quiet _tink_ of the plate hitting stone, and a moment later Arthur’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Merlin.”

“This is embarrassing,” Merlin mumbles, and tips his head lower so he can hide his eyes against his knees. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to—”

“I’m the king, Merlin. I do as I like.”

“Right.” Merlin can feel Arthur’s thumb stroking along his neck. “That’s the point of being king.”

“Exactly,” Arthur says gently. “You’re doing very well.”

“Crying into my one good pair of trousers because I can’t handle the sight of someone eating breakfast.”

“You’re far from the first person I’ve brought to tears on my unexpected appearance,” says Arthur. His hand stills on Merlin’s collarbone. “This is practically commonplace.”

“All those hordes of young ladies taking up outside your chamber.”

“So many hearts broken. If only they knew they could easier find me in my manservant’s bedroom, instead.”

Merlin rubs his eyes against his neckerchief and looks up. Arthur is crouched beside him, a look on his face that Merlin has seen him wear many times before as they sat together and hoped for a miracle to save them.

Merlin decides very firmly that he’s going to trust that this is Arthur. No one else knows that that’s what he’s decided so it’s not like he’s going to embarrass himself to anyone else if he’s wrong.

He gives himself a shake and sits up properly, straightening his back against the wall. He looks over Arthur’s shoulder. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”

“I think I mentioned my good-for-nothing manservant last night,” Arthur muses. He stands from his crouch and is back to enjoying his plate of cheese in a moment. “Fortunately he still knows how I like to start my day.”

Merlin smiles, feeling his cheeks heat a little. “Of course.”

Arthur glances back at him. “Since you've not had time to come up with a cover story yet, I assume you’ll be out with Gaius today? If you’re not a servant anymore, you must at the very least still be his apprentice.”

“Yes. Easier to keep an eye on him from here,” Merlin says. “He’s getting older.”

He abruptly remembers the plants he was supposed to gather the night before, the last night of the full moon, and feels a twinge of guilt. “He’s going to be annoyed with me for leaving that basket full of plants outside.”

“It’s probably still there where you left it,” Arthur says. “‘That one bush at the foot of the castle’ is hardly a highly trafficked part of the city.”

“Yes. Maybe,” Merlin says, and resolves to check at some point during the day. He meets Arthur’s eye and feels a thrill race around his body. “Will you be okay here until I come back?”

“I’ve faced far worse things than a stay in your room, Merlin,” says Arthur, ambling around it and peering outside of the window. “Lots of fights, lots of battles. Of course I died during the last battle, so—" 

“Don’t joke. Magic is still illegal, you know. If you suddenly get up and start walking around, you’re going to cause a riot. Just...just stay here til I work out what to do with you. Don’t go anywhere.”

“I gathered that. Have any suggestions for a way to pass the time?”

“Whatever it is you expected _me_ to do in here,” says Merlin. “Just try not to make any much noise. You can go into Gaius’s chambers when we leave, just pay attention in case he returns. He usually comes back a short while before sundown, I’ll try to give you warning.”

Arthur’s gaze lights on the magic book. It’s on the floor as usual, buried under a heap of Merlin’s dirty clothes. 

Arthur smirks and leans down to pick it up, flipping straight to the middle to find what had to be an array of sleeping potions and all their ingredients. “So many times I’ve seen this lying around. Now I’ll finally get to read it.”

“If you really want to,” says Merlin with a shrug, and that same nervous, confused frisson racing around him all over again. “It won’t be very interesting to you.”

Arthur ignores this. “I’m sure you remember that I was, apparently, born of magic. I certainly haven’t forgotten.”

“I haven’t forgotten either.”

“Mmm. Well. Perhaps I’ll learn something.” Arthur looks at Merlin, eyes narrowed, and waves the book around a bit. “You weren’t very careful with this.”

“I didn’t need to be,” Merlin replies in a murmur. “You never wanted to see it.”

Arthur grunts and tosses the book aside. He looks from the bed to the window to Merlin again. “And are you going to leave me here all day without anything to eat?”

“One less belt hole to punch,” Merlin says, realising what he’s said only when the stress lines fall away from Arthur’s face for an instant, replaced by a tentative smile.

Merlin looks at the door and back, giving Arthur time to hide what’s happening inside his head. “I’ll bring you lunch,” he promises. “Just try not to attract anyone’s attention before that.”

He leaves his spell book for Arthur to peruse and obtains his solemn promise not to reveal himself to any passing guards while he locates breakfast, before following a yawning Gaius into the lower town. 

Their first patient is a woman who went into labour shortly into the night, followed by a child with a curious skin condition and a grandmother showing signs of lifelong, latent magic. It is hard to care when Merlin knows Arthur is pacing in his room. He follows Gaius from house to house, smiling at anyone who looks like a patient, and bites through his lip when the baby is born just in time to delay his return to the castle for lunch.

“You’ve been a bit manic all morning, are you sure you’re feeling all right?” says Gaius in an unexpected croon as the midwife hands over the baby. “I can manage this alone, if you need to take some time to yourself. I know that today is—”

“I’m fine,” says Merlin.

“So you keep saying. But if you’re not ready yet—little Janie has been very helpful, no reason that she shouldn’t continue learning.”

“I’m ready,” says Merlin, lip bloody, pulling on a smile more easily than ever with the memory of Arthur’s at the sight of the bread and fruit he’d brought him that morning. He’s spent the morning thinking up ways to sneak nicer bedclothes into his room tonight. “I’m okay, really, Gaius.”

Gaius looks faintly alarmed, flicking looks from the baby’s red face to whatever is showing on Merlin’s.

“I’m fine,” Merlin insists, and strokes the baby’s fingers, unable to help himself.

When Gaius eventually finds a way to shoo him away in the early afternoon, Merlin nearly breaks his leg leaping over a fence in his rush to get back to the castle. 

He paces outside the door to Gaius’s chambers for as long as he can stand it, then slips inside and crashes into Arthur coming the other way.

“Whoa,” says Arthur, hand brief and light on Merlin’s chest. “Merlin, _finally_.”

Merlin’s body fills with something bright. He doesn’t say anything, struggling to keep his face under control.

Arthur looks at Merlin with a mix of annoyance and nerves betraying him in the set of his jaw. He could have just returned from a hunt by the look of him, grousing at Merlin for the state of his chambers and how long it’s taking to run his bath. But there’s an edge of uncertainty there too, which hadn’t been there in the morning. And hope, which had.

There’s the little stack of empty plates on the little table in the corner, stacked like Arthur is trying to disguise how many there are, and not a hint of him anywhere else in the room, other than his whole body, here where it shouldn't be.

“I know it’s been a while and I’ve only been back at the castle for a day, but I can’t be _that_ easy to forget.” Arthur frowns. “I really thought you’d be happy to see me.”

“I _am_ happy to see you,” says Merlin.

His good mood at seeing Arthur where he left him plummets. Merlin is exhausted, and hiding a not-dead, impatient king from his own kingdom feels far more awful than trying to conceal his magic from him. It's infuriating that Arthur doesn't seem to understand that. And Merlin would rather be doing anything else than fight with him right now.

He tries to shove Arthur away with both hands on his chest, and finds him frustratingly immovable. Merlin widens his fingers and tries to push again; Arthur stays right where he is with Merlin’s hands on him. “Then prove it,” Arthur says.

Merlin clenches his fists and glares at him. “I don’t _know_ how to prove you’re really you, you prat. That’s going to be a problem. Just because I want it to be you doesn’t mean anything to anyone else.” Saying it out loud helps him remember it. He whirls away around the room. “There’s all sorts of creatures you could be, or spells someone else could have done to make themselves look like you. Camelot still has enemies and I’m an obvious choice to break its defenses. And even if it is you, I—we already lost you once. Anyone who trusts you’re not going to die or vanish or leave me—leave _them_ again is daft.”

Arthur looks unimpressed. “Well, _they_ should stop worrying. There’s enough to be getting on with without wasting time on things we can’t control.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Of course not. Nothing’s easy. But...anyone still doubting whether it’s really me should remember who I need to help me now.” Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Who always has.”

Merlin looks away from Arthur and around, early afternoon sunshine seeping through the glass and warming the bare walls. He tries to think if Arthur has ever spent this long in his room before. “That’s not really an argument, you know.”

“I’m the king, Merlin. I don’t argue. I decree. Declare. Assert. That sort of thing.”

Merlin shakes his head. “Any plans for how to decree your way into the rest of the castle without causing someone to burn it down in their superstition?”

Arthur closes his eyes for a moment. “How is Guinevere?” he asks quietly.

“She’s …” Merlin thinks. He hasn’t seen very much of Gwen in the last few months and whenever he has, she’s looked tired. “She’s doing the best that she can under the circumstances. ” 

Arthur frowns. “My knights? Sir Leon was at Camlann, did he--”

Merlin knows what Arthur is asking and says, low, “Leon is fine. Gwaine died by Morgana's hand.”

Arthur bows his head. “He was brave and true.”

“And stupid,” says Merlin. It hurts to think about Gwaine, still. “And strong. And he was both of our friend. His grave lies on the west side of the mountain.”

Arthur draws a breath and says, “Who else?”

“The others are fine,” says Merlin. “They made it. They mourned you. _We_ mourned you. Arthur,” he says in a whisper, because even though he’s not sure that this is him, if it is then it seems important to ask. “How could you be back so soon?”

“What do you mean?”

“The dragon,” Merlin says. “Kilgharrah. He’s the one who carried us to—” He shuts his eyes, thinking of that last, awful journey. “He told me that you would return. But I thought I’d have to wait a lifetime.”

“I don’t know,” says Arthur dismissively. This is clearly the least pressing issue on his mind, no reason to think about why he’s back so soon instead of why too late. Just glad to be back. “Maybe I’ll come back again. Or maybe this time I’ll live forever.”

“What do we do?” Merlin has been trying to think about the answer to this all day, while he’s not been trying to parse the thought of Arthur, alive. Until last night he had planned to live out his days mourning and Arthur’s reappearance has disrupted that vision of his future quite unexpectedly. “Guinevere can’t survive another challenge to the throne—yes, I know you’re not your typical challenger. But look, Arthur. Let’s say for the sake of argument that you’re you, who you say you are.”

“I _am._ ”

“Even you must understand how hard it would be for someone who isn’t out of their mind to believe that when the popular knowledge is that you’ve been dead for a year,” Merlin argues. He’d left the lake before the day was out and stumbled back to the citadel in a haze of grief and despair, and no one he met along the way is in any state of uncertainty today as to whether Arthur is still breathing. Except Merlin.

Arthur’s eyes flicker shut. “I don’t know what to do either.”

Merlin looks at him. Arthur always looks out of place in small rooms, too much spirit to fit anywhere other than a courtroom or battlefield. But now he’s still and quiet and, Merlin thinks painfully, afraid. He’s trying to stand tall but he’s getting lost in the bloody white shirt Merlin found him in. Merlin wants to hug him and never let go.

Instead, he holds up a hand to Arthur. “I forgot,” he says, and casts around for a basket. “I’ll be right back.”

Arthur shakes his head. “And where should I go while I’m waiting for you? Is Gaius going to come back?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so, he was up to his elbows in some kind of illness earlier, I think he would have liked me to stay except I was—never mind. Just leave the door open to my room so you can hide if you hear someone walk by,” Merlin tells him, and trips over his feet as he’s running out of the door.

Arthur’s rooms are exactly as they were when he died. Gwen likes her own chambers on the north side of the castle, where the smell of the far ocean sometimes drifts through the open window, and she has no favourite to take Arthur’s place. And besides, Merlin is there often enough when a servant appears to dust or open the windows on a blustery day. No one will scrub Arthur out of his rooms while Merlin is here to make sure that Arthur remains.

He flings open the wardrobe doors and pokes around inside, dragging one or two of the less noticeably ostentatious shirts off their hangers followed by a clean pair of breeches. Then he reconsiders: Arthur has lost weight and for today at least, he will be eating scraps from Merlin’s plate. Merlin grabs another, older pair, that Arthur had been fond of and Merlin hadn’t had managed to get rid of before—before.

He takes another couple of shirts and a belt, and is halfway to the door—avoiding the bed, neatly made as it never was when Arthur was last alive—when he catches sight of himself in the mirror, looking more alive himself than he’s been in months, and with a hefty armful of the dead king’s clothes flung over his arm and another pile built up in the basket. And he’s got this ridiculous, hopeful sort of smile on his face, which mostly just highlights the circles under his eyes.

Merlin coughs back a laugh. He looks like he’s trying to make off with all Arthur’s finery, perhaps via the armoury that still holds all of Arthur’s beautifully crafted weapons, unused since his death. Fine clothes and richly dyed clothes make for worthy sales, especially in difficult and troubling times after the death of a young king.

Merlin thinks for a moment. Then he tosses Arthur’s clothes on the bed, and starts tearing off his own clothes and throwing them next to Arthur’s, as fast as he can manage without ripping anything. He doesn’t have to persuade any of the other servants, and even the nobles try to avoid him now, learning their lesson in the weeks after Arthur’s death and refraining from catching themselves alone with him where he might say something about Arthur that’s hard to reply to. But the number of foreigners in the castle has increased lately, and some of them have been here for some time now, with clear onward intentions for Camelot. Merlin would like to keep up his disguise to those men as long as he can. He isn’t sure that Gwen will be able to protect him if they stop and challenge him, or if they jump straight over the questions and into bribes or violence. 

Merlin puts on Arthur’s most sombre outfit: long dark breeches and a black shirt. He skips as much as he can without ignoring any of the fancy buttons and ties that will immediately out him as half-dressed, and tries not to think about the last time he did this for Arthur—not early enough, on the night of a feast meant to impress the Mercians, Arthur cursing him for how long this was taking and because _Mer_ lin wasn’t the one who had to talk to politics all night—Merlin stops and takes a breath.

“Stand up straight,” he whispers to the person he sees in the mirror. “Camelot needs you.” He picks up the wicker basket to shove all the other clothes inside as he walks on back to Gaius’s chambers.

There’s something going on today that Merlin must have missed before, a lot of foreigners in the castle who don’t know which way to turn as Merlin approaches them. He tries to ignore them, holding his head high and the basket firm, striding through the corridors as if he’s just another servant. He is, after all, dressed as someone in the royal household should be. He might have dressed so well before, if Arthur had been someone with an interest in what he looked like and who he represented instead of caring only that nothing between the two of them ever changed. Of course this isn’t the first time Merlin has worn Arthur’s clothes, there were so many times that it was imperative that Merlin pretend to be asleep in Arthur’s bed while Arthur snuck out to sign a treaty or win the heart of a princess, but it’s the first time in so very long. 

Merlin slows as he passes by an empty storeroom, side-stepping into the doorway, and shuts his eyes as he thinks. The Arthur that Merlin has grieved for months and loved for much longer would be pacing and ready to break out of Gaius’s chambers after close to a full day trapped inside with a clear view of one side of the rest of the city.

It seems foolish to take the risk, Merlin thinks, and quickens his pace once more.

“What took you so long?” Arthur hisses when Merlin makes it back, giving him a look that Merlin really doesn’t think acknowledges his genius in collecting soft, clean clothes without any bloodstains, and instead just looks displeased at the time it took to sneak back. “And why are you wearing my clothes?”

“Less obvious than carrying them out of your chambers,” Merlin replies, and beckons him up and into his bedroom, closing the door behind them. “I’m not a servant anymore, remember? Just the apprentice to an aging physician, favourite of the court.”

A shadow passes over Arthur’s face. “Of course,” he says, although he clearly had forgotten. “What would Gwen need a manservant for? Especially not a, a foolish and incompetent one like you, Merlin.”

His hands are trembling. Merlin puts down the basket on his bed and bows his head to look through it, any of the shirts would do. 

When he looks up again, Arthur has himself back under control. 

“Anyway,” Merlin continues. He thinks about taking off the shirt he’s still wearing and putting one of his own back on, and instead decides that there’s a better way to make himself feel better. He takes a careful step forward and reaches up to untie the laces at Arthur’s throat, calm and slow. “The castle is crawling with soldiers. I had to avoid them, obviously, or you’d have been alone here a lot longer.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’ve been here long enough. Guinevere should know that I am back. So she can accept me, or … or banish me. Or kill me.”

“She wouldn’t do that, don’t be stupid,” says Merlin, heart ratcheting up in his chest. He moves to the laces at Arthur’s wrists and unties first one, then the other. Then he takes a step back. “And I wouldn’t let her. No, be quiet. I’ve had a whole year to enjoy being allowed to speak without being told to shut up, you can just learn to put up with it. Look, we need to go and find somewhere else to … to work this out. I just need a bit of time to be sure I can prove that it’s you.”

“How many times do I have to—”

“More times than you can possibly tell me,” Merlin tells him firmly. “It doesn’t matter if I believe you, it matters if everyone else does.”

Merlin is so sure that it is him, though. The scar, the way he’s standing, and the shape of his mouth. And Kilgharrah had never been so unequivocal as when telling Merlin that Arthur would return. Actually this was something Merlin would quite like to bring up with him, given the opportunity.

His fingers itch to touch Arthur again. “Let me take this off.”

Arthur lets him lift the shirt over his head. He’s a bit thinner—still not as thin as Merlin, though—but he looks like he could have spent the last week training in the autumn sunshine instead of the lake. And the newly-healed scar on his abdomen, just the size of Mordred’s blade, clean and pale, is easy to miss if you weren’t desperately trying to do just that. Merlin holds his hand just above Arthur’s skin and rubs his thumb gently over the wound, clenching his jaw so hard it hurts.

“It’s really me,” says Arthur, nearly pleading, as if that’s something Arthur would ever do. Or ever has.

A long moment later, Merlin steps away. He tosses the ruined shirt aside, resolving to burn it later.

Arthur picks another one of his own clean out of the basket at random and pulls it on. “I grant you do have a point about my sudden reappearance. I suppose if you died of a violent … magic … wound … and reappeared in the gardens a year later, I’d have questions too.”

“I’m not only susceptible to magic,” Merlin mutters. “A stab wound would kill me too. Probably.”

“Yes, but I suddenly find it so much harder to believe that you’d be caught unawares,” says Arthur, mouth curving. 

He looks up at Merlin’s silence and his expression gentles. “Stop that. You’re not the reason I died. Quite the opposite, in fact. You did everything you could to save me."

Merlin closes his eyes for a moment. Then he says, “I don't see any other way. We need to leave the citadel. We can go at night. Then I’ll try to find a way to prove that you’re you, so no one tries to kill you. We can work out what to do from there. Perhaps if we send word from one of the neighbouring kingdoms—Cenred is hanging on by a thread, it is very unlikely that he’ll put any stock in rumours of a, a young man who resembles a dead king of Camelot.”

Arthur nods. “Very well.”

Merlin wonders if Arthur would be quite so accommodating if Merlin wasn't so obviously struggling with his own feelings. He shakes his head a bit, trying to pull himself together. Of course, he thinks. If it is Arthur, they're going to have to come back to Camelot sooner or later. Probably sooner. Perhaps there's no point to hiding him in someone else's kingdom at all.

He raises his eyebrows at Arthur. “Or we don’t have to,” he says. “You’re … you’re the king. If you think we should stay, and talk to Gaius—well, he’ll help us work out what to do next.” Where Arthur should go, and how Merlin should feel. “Gwen will believe that it’s you, and she won’t try to keep you from the throne. It’s just, she’s worked very hard to keep Camelot from breaking into civil war—the lords of the north didn’t take very kindly to my returning without you or your body. Or a place that they could find it. And if you suddenly reappear right after mourning the anniversary of your death … ” He trails off. “She still deserves to know,” he says decisively. “I’m not the only one who’s missed you.” 

Arthur is pacing around the room. He stops to look closely at Merlin. “You said that magic is still outlawed. How outlawed? Did anything—”

They start when the outside door to Gaius’s chambers opens and slams. Gaius is grumbling loud enough to hear from where they’re hidden behind Merlin’s closed door, besmirching the new father’s name in no uncertain terms and moving onto an outbreak of dysentery in the next breath, a fire catching quickly in the hearth.

Arthur listens with a complicated expression, yearning and nerves and sadness lining his jaw, his narrowed eyes. It’s the same look he wore when he died, and before that, at his coronation. Merlin’s chest tightens.

“Merlin?” calls Gaius. “There’s soup. The baby made it, you know. It was actually quite surprising, I wasn’t altogether sure that she would get through the morning.”

They listen in silence as Gaius putters around, chopping fresh tomatoes and spring onions and thyme to fill out the soup. Merlin has some vague idea that as long as they’re eating at the table together with freshly made soup, Gaius will see this version of Arthur and somehow know that it’s the real thing, and Merlin won’t have to worry anymore about someone from the court throwing Arthur on a pyre. 

It suddenly feels selfish to keep Arthur to himself. Merlin waits for Arthur to look up, and raises his eyebrows in question. 

“Now?” mouths Arthur, surprise battling with hope on his face.

“No time like the present,” whispers Merlin in reply, because although this is a terrible idea and Gaius will have to consider the prospect that Arthur is a shade and react accordingly, it is so hard to see that wistful look on Arthur’s face and not give in. “Gaius will know what to do. Ready?”

Arthur looks at the door.

“Merlin,” Gaius calls again. His voice is getting closer. “Your lunch will get cold. I think you will like seeing the baby again. I told Marinka we would be by again in the morning, early. Nothing like a newborn to—”

Arthur shuts his eyes, visibly steeling himself against the anguish of holding back. “No. He can’t see me,” he mumbles, so quiet that Merlin has to lean forwards to hear him. His voice cracks. “He mustn’t. His allegiance is still to Camelot, and Camelot is Guinevere, now.” He stares at the ground. “And I am in her history.”

Merlin thinks quickly and then reaches a decision, bounding across the room to his wardrobe and opening the door, shoving the basket of Arthur’s clothes inside under his jackets. “Come on,” he whispers, jerking his head. “Get in.” 

“Merlin—”

“It’s that or the window,” Merlin hisses, a compelling argument likely only because Arthur probably remembers the last time he’d had Merlin help him out a window. He is gratified when Arthur moves immediately inside just in time for Merlin to shut the door behind them both.

The cupboard wasn’t really designed to fit two fully grown men inside. Merlin is half-leaning against the giant chest he’d shoved and magicked inside a decade ago, Arthur standing extremely close in the vee of his legs with his ear pressed to the crack in the door. It occurs to Merlin that there isn’t really a reason for him to be inside the cupboard as well, other than that if he was outside Gaius would certainly drag him out into the larger room, where Arthur wasn’t, and then on and into the citadel after they had finished eating. He shuffles backwards on the chest as much as best he can manage, trying to maintain an inch of space between them.

The door to Merlin’s room clicks open and Gaius’s voice says, “Merlin? Are you here?”

Merlin and Arthur keep their breaths slow and steady as Gaius takes his time looking. It’s ridiculous really, the room is hardly big enough for Merlin’s bed and the space on the floor where he ties his shoes. But Gaius comes on inside and starts poking around, lifting up books and—oops, Merlin’s clothes which he’d taken off in Arthur’s chambers; those Gaius folds and puts back on the bed—and opening the curtains. “Really, Merlin,” he sighs to himself, loud enough to hear it clearly through the doors. “How many times have I told you—well, hmm.”

Arthur turns his head and breathes, “Yes. _Really_ , Merlin,” in his ear. 

Merlin turns, still trying to keep that inch between them; there’s a line of light from the door cutting down Arthur’s face that illuminates his expression, wistful once more, and anxious at the same time.

Merlin looks closely at the latch on the wardrobe and wills it to lock itself so that Gaius doesn’t open the door to put away Merlin’s clothing. The lock reflects a flash of gold and there’s the gentle, nearly silent snick of the lock turning.

Gaius continues moving around the room. Merlin thinks he is probably trying to check up on him rather than clean after him, interpreting the unmade bed and heaps of old books to mean something other than that Merlin has had an awful lot of time on his hands since Arthur—of course, Merlin thinks, the presence of a bundle of clothes that are clearly no one other than the dead king’s says quite something. Just probably not whatever Gaius thinks it says.

Arthur is trembling again. Only just perceptibly, and only noticeable because he’s standing so close to Merlin.

Merlin shuts his eyes and takes a long, deep breath. 

Then he reaches to wrap both of his arms around Arthur’s waist, feeling Arthur’s breath hitch and tightening his arms as hard as he can in response. He wants to give Arthur comfort, to anchor him where he is, to the world, to Merlin. Where he won’t go anywhere again that Merlin can’t follow. 

He leans his forehead gently against Arthur’s back.

Arthur lowers his hands to cover Merlin’s as they both listen in silence while Gaius continues to move about the room. Merlin whispers, “I can’t believe it’s you.”

“Believe it,” Arthur whispers back. He is warm against Merlin, and real, and smells like himself. “You’re the only person who always has.” He stills. “Merlin—”

Merlin realises he’s getting hard. His cock is pressed right up against Arthur’s body, and they’re in a cupboard with nowhere to go. He huffs a laugh, or tries to. Of all the times.

“Sorry,” he says. “Something else I forgot to tell you, I suppose.”

They stand in silence together for a long moment. Merlin doesn’t dare shift, there’s no getting away from the long, hard line of Arthur’s body, but it seems mighty rude to not somehow fix the situation. He’s still hard. And Gaius is still outside, picking up odd bits of paper and socks and shirts as if all that Merlin needs to get back on form is a clean place to sleep in.

Arthur doesn’t move, even when Gaius finally, finally, bustles out of Merlin’s room and down the stairs with has to be a lot of dirty clothes. Merlin sighs in relief, slumping back, expecting Arthur to move away, but instead he just murmurs, “Outstanding timing as always, Merlin.”

Merlin swallows his first response, then his second. He says, “Never a bad time to insult me, is it, sire.” 

“You know me,” Arthur whispers. He has no hesitation, clearly: he shifts where he’s standing, his arse coming into firmer contact with Merlin’s cock and causing Merlin’s breath to hitch. “If I’d lived another ten minutes, would you have told me about this, too?”

“Talking of timing. You want to talk about the day you died now?” That should be a good way to get Merlin out of this physical situation but now that Arthur’s pressed against him, moving, it doesn’t.

Arthur fumbles behind him and grips Merlin’s leg reassuringly. “I’m just saying. Two secrets to choose from and you picked the one that made me doubt you for much of the end of my life. We could have been rolling around in the grass all that time.”

Merlin thinks hazily that Arthur sounds less likely to panic now that they’re talking about the sex he could have been having with Merlin while he was bleeding out with his fatal stab wound. Merlin can work with this. “Not that much of a secret,” he murmurs nosing Arthur’s hair. “And not that surprising, I imagine.”

Arthur is silent for a moment that Merlin suspects means he’s raising his eyebrows at the door. “What do you mean?” he says eventually.

"Well, this is hardly the first time."

Arthur freezes. He tightens his hand on Merlin’s thigh. “If you’re talking about—”

Merlin lets himself touch on a long-treasured memory of Arthur’s cock heavy in his mouth. “I can’t believe I was _that_ forgettable.” 

The door out of Gaius’s chambers swings loudly closed, and Arthur says, louder now, “Explain yourself.”

“Maybe you did forget,” Merin murmured. “No wonder you didn’t ever—”

Arthur tightens his hand on Merlin’s thigh. “One night, the night before my wedding,” he hisses, “isn’t something you just forget, _Mer_ lin. And it’s not something you never mention again if you want it to happen again.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that was the sort of thing men of all kinds tried to forget.” Merlin rolls his eyes. 

“God, Merlin.” Arthur actually sounds upset. Merlin shakes his head.

Arthur slides his hand higher up Merlin’s leg, letting the back of it brush against Merlin’s cock. Or maybe intending it. Merlin bites down on his lip and pushes his forehead down harder against Arthur’s back, trying to keep down a moan. 

“What did you mean _forgot to tell me_?” Arthur asks in a low voice. He drags his hand higher until he’s gripping Merlin’s cock through his breeches, difficult with the awkward angle of his arm but sure enough that Merlin has to draw a heavy breath. “What exactly didn't you tell me?”

Merlin tries to keep it together. “It doesn’t matter. Gaius is going to come back any moment, you know.”

“I don’t care.” Arthur tightens his fingers, a bit too tight. “It matters to me. Did you want this to happen again? You should have said so."

"Of course I did, but this isn't the time."

"When better? You can be quiet. Just because you never managed to keep your voice down before—apparently you just didn’t have the right incentive.” Arthur punctuates his words with a stroke.

That’s not really true, Merlin thinks, trying to keep his reaction to a minimum. He’d had to stay quiet the last time too. They hadn’t planned it very well, or at all, and it being the night before Arthur’s wedding it had meant avoiding a veritable parade of servants, outfitters, and entertainers passed by his chambers throughout the night.

Actually Arthur had mostly been silent then, too. Fucking Merlin with the dedication he usually reserved for the battlefield and then rolling Merlin over when they were done and fucking him again until the sun crept up through the glass and the cockerel announced the day.

Merlin has spent quite a lot of nights filling in the gaps in those silences, too.

He turns his head to lean his cheek against Arthur’s back and says, despite himself, “I’m not the only one of us who never mentioned it again.”

“No,” says Arthur, squeezing his fingers lightly around Merlin’s thickening cock. “Do you still need me to tell you?”

“I mean, it wouldn’t hurt.”

“I wanted you to do something,” Arthur whispers, hand moving in short jerks as much as he can. “At least, I thought you would say something. I thought you would find a reason to stay in my chambers at night. Or that you’d finally learn to wake up early and show up in the morning before the day started.”

What-ifs and could-have-beens aren’t what Merlin wants to think about right now. But still. He finally dares to snake an arm around Arthur’s middle and drops his hand to find Arthur’s cock standing hard in his breeches. “What would you have done if I did?” he says, feeling the shape of him.

“Pushed you down and put my cock in your mouth,” says Arthur, and bucks into Merlin’s hand. “Told you off for being late first, of course. Always late, Merlin. To think you could have enjoyed the pleasure of my cock every morning and you chose a lie-in instead.”

Merlin’s mouth falls open, breathing harshly against Arthur’s shirt. “Should've said so then, shouldn't you.” 

Really Arthur could have had anything without even a word. He could have pushed Merlin down in his bed on any morning and taken what he’d wanted and Merlin would have loved every second of it. 

“I told you,” Arthur murmurs. “Kings don’t make requests, Merlin.”

Merlin is finding it hard to focus. Arthur is fucking into his hand gently, his arse pushing back against Merlin’s cock every time, and all Merlin wants is to do this in a bed where no one will find them. Where he can look at Arthur’s face knowing that he’s here, and alive.

As if on cue, the door out to the corridor swings open and shut once again. The sounds of Gaius ambling around with his various books and potions make their way into Merlin’s bedroom and in particular the cupboard, directly in front of the open bedroom door.

“He left the door open,” Merlin whispers, despairingly.

“God,” Arthur breathes, stilling his hand. “Merlin. This is inconvenient. Troubling. Can’t you do something about it?”

“Something like what?”

“You know magic,” Arthur whispers impatiently. “If there was ever a time to serve your king. There must be something useful for this sort of situation. You can’t only know battle spells.”

“I barely know any of those,” Merlin tells him, but he takes the point. He thinks and whispers a spell in time with a brief, guilty flare of his fingers.

“Good lord,” Gaius says audibly, over a clatter of glass and pottery landing on his workbench. “I forgot the baby!” He scurries out and away again, muttering to himself displeasedly.

The door slams behind him. Merlin wills it locked and the wooden bar falls across the doors with a weighty crash.

He returns his attention to the cupboard, breaking the lock and letting the door fly open with no warning; Arthur trips and falls down the step and lands on his hands and knees on the stone floor. 

He clambers back up and turns to look at Merlin, eyes narrowed. “What was that for?”

“Expediency,” says Merlin, unfolding himself from the top of the chest, and doesn’t waste a moment before slamming his bedroom door closed with a spell. Then he turns to look at Arthur.

A smile flashes over Arthur’s face. He takes two quick steps towards Merlin, and pulls him in close and kisses him. It’s like that night all over again, except this is now. After Arthur left him and then came back for him.

Merlin lifts his hands to sink his fingers into Arthur’s hair. He kisses Arthur hungrily back, holding him as close as he can get. He can feel his own heart beating quick in his chest, a desperate sort of happiness and relief flooding through him.

Arthur walks them carefully backwards so that Merlin’s back is against the wall under the window. He’s got his arms around Merlin’s waist and he’s strong and alive. Merlin wants to keep going and going.

He can still feel Arthur’s cock pressed hard against his leg but it doesn’t feel as urgent anymore. It feels like something that they’ve both wanted for a long time and neither thought they would ever get again. He doesn’t want to rush it.

A long moment later, Arthur leans back, mouth red, cheeks flushed. He raises his eyebrows at Merlin.

Merlin grins back.

They decide, a while later, that the only way forward is on. 

“Somewhere away from Camelot then," says Merlin. "Where no one will recognise you?”

“For a time, at least. Let’s delay you being hanged for trying to return me to the throne.”

“We need to leave tonight, then,” Merlin says. “Or before.” 

“Probably,” Arthur agrees, and grabs hold of Merlin’s wrists. He’s still strong enough to hold Merlin in place against the mattress, even holding his arms as he is, and even after a year of decidedly less exertion than Merlin.

“Or not,” says Merlin breathily. “How many times do you think you can fuck me in an afternoon?”

“Aha,” Arthur mutters. “A challenge.” He grins at Merlin. “Depends what else I feel like doing to you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you putting this off, Merlin. We could have been doing this all day. What kind of servant—all those times I tried to fire you before, I was clearly right.”

“Better make up for it then, hadn’t we,” says Merlin over him, not sure he can bear recriminations right now. He hesitates. “But—”

“Not yet,” Arthur says, sounding about as regretful as Merlin feels right now. He smiles at Merlin though and says, “I thought I’d never get to have this again.”

Merlin swallows. He traces his hands over Arthur’s hips again, trying to keep himself in check.

“Less of that. I’m back now. You can feel sad later, when you’ve found somewhere for us to go outside of the citadel and it’s easier for me to distract you.”

“You do realise that we’re not going to be able to come back for quite a while? I’m not joking, Arthur.”

Arthur pauses. “You’re right.” He puts one hand flat against Merlin’s chest and says seriously, “I think you should fuck me here. Then when I take my pleasure I can look out and share my bounty with the kingdom one last time.”

“Prat,” says Merlin, although he finds himself tempted. “Lucky Camelot.”

“Very.” Arthur’s expression changes. He looks a bit surprised. “Oh. I remembered something. From, from when I was dead.”

“Oh." Merlin blinks. "How quickly you lose interest in redistributing your wealth.”

“Be quiet, Merlin,” says Arthur. He tips his head thoughtfully. “I thought I was dreaming. I remember water. Darkness and bright sunshine at the same time. And I remember I could hear the sound of the citadel the way it is on market days.”

Today is market day. Merlin had had to fight his way through the good citizens of Camelot to get to all their patients, and back again to the castle. And he can hear the clamour coming down from the window above them.

He looks from the window to Arthur, who shrugs. “Of course, it could be wishful thinking. Or more likely, the sound reminded me. You choose.” 

Merlin is glad to think of a version of Arthur’s death where he wasn’t completely alone. He strokes down Arthur’s arm. “What do I know? I wasn’t there.”

For the first time Merlin thinks about where they’ll need to go for them both to be safe. He can’t imagine Arthur will want to go that far.

South, he decides on a whim. To the sea. But first, they’ll get Arthur’s sword back.

Arthur sighs and straightens. “All right,” he says, looking away from the window at last. “I think it’s time for us to go.”

Merlin looks him up and down in all his disarray. “Recently resurrected king or not, you’ll cause a riot if you go out dressed like that.”

“Good point.” Arthur turns to poke around through the clothes Merlin had selected for him from his bedchamber. He changes his shirt for another, better, more boring one—Merlin lets his gaze trace over the expanse of his back, smooth and unbroken by new scars—then selects a couple more and a clean pair of loose trousers and folds them into a sort of knapsack that he can easily carry. Or, more likely, that Merlin can easily carry. The rest of the clothes he leaves strewn over Merlin’s bed.

Arthur looks pointedly at Merlin and then around the room. 

“Oh.” Merlin picks up a shirt from his own pile of clothes on the ground and shoves it awkwardly in his pocket. “Actually—” he takes out that one shirt and replaces it with one of Arthur’s, much nicer ones. “Done.”

“That’s it?” Arthur raises his eyebrows. “No very illegal book of magic? No … second spare shirt?”

“I have a second spare shirt,” says Merlin, and nods at Arthur’s knapsack. “Yours. And the spell book isn’t very useful to me anymore, to be honest. I just didn’t get around to giving it back to Gai—um, Fran— Francisco yet.”

“Not very useful,” Arthur mutters, shaking his head. “The number of times I’ve almost picked up and started reading ‘not very useful’ when I was in here looking for you, Merlin.”

“And now know you can just ask me,” says Merlin lightly.

“Hmm. By the way, it was Fran, Francisco who told me to trust you last time. It seems to me you could have been more careful with his secrets, too, as well as your own.”

Merlin chooses to ignore this. He casts around the room to be sure. He doesn’t need any of it. “Right, well. We’ve got a few hours until it gets dark. I could go and find us some food for the road. Or we could get a bit more sleep.” Not that Arthur needs it. He’d slept all through the night, trusting that Merlin would work it out eventually.

Arthur shakes his head. “No. Why wait?” He turns to Merlin with a shrewd look in his eye. “Can’t the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth find a way for us to get out of the citadel in the daylight without being seen?”

“Er. Yes, I suppose.” Merlin is going to have to get over how strange it is to hear Arthur talk so easily about his magic. “Then we can leave now. If you want to.”

“Now it is.”

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, Merlin thinks. It’s not like Arthur was ever likely to delay before. Still it’s strange to think of leaving. Camelot has been Merlin’s home for so long.

He races around his room and Gaius’s to put things in order while Arthur follows him around making helpful comments. Merlin interrupts to say, “I can’t just leave without telling Gaius.”

“Of course not.”

Merlin thinks and then dashes out a note with words that Gaius should be able to interpret well enough. He leaves it on the desk under a vial of something green and noxious to weigh it down, and resolves to write again whenever he next can. Then he picks up the cloak he hasn’t worn in years, brushes it down and swings it over his shoulder.

He turns and looks at Arthur already hidden in his own deep blue cloak. “Are you sure?” Merlin asks. “This isn’t the only way. We could try talking to Gwen. I don’t believe they would feel anything but relief at seeing you alive. They would support you.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Much as it pains me to say it, Merlin, but: you’re right. It would be ruinous to Camelot for me to return now and reassert my claim to the throne.”

“They would join you in the meantime, then,” Merlin argues. “Wherever we go. Maybe—maybe not the queen, but Leon and the rest of the knights.”

“Which is exactly why we can’t tell her, or them,” Arthur says. He looks resolute, and a little sad. “I won’t leave her alone.”

“Then,” Merlin starts.

“Merlin.” Arthur ducks to look under his hood. Somewhat to Merlin’s surprise, he reaches out to cup Merlin’s face for a moment, stroking his thumb gently over Merlin’s cheek. “I won’t see you alone, either. Part of ruling is knowing when it’s not your time to do so. I serve Camelot, not the other way around.”

Merlin shuts his eyes to lean into the touch. 

Then he pulls back and takes a deep breath. “All right. Let’s go.” He waves his hand between them. “That should do it. Try and stay close to me.”

They creep out of Gaius’s chambers and walk down through the castle, avoiding anyone who looks too closely at them. Or more specifically, at the ground in front of them.

“What do they keep looking at?” Arthur whispers eventually, once they get to the street. He’s kept within inches of Merlin the whole of their walk down. “Should I be able to see it?”

“A little white cat chasing after a spinning top,” Merlin whispers back. “And, no, you shouldn’t. Now hush, the spell doesn’t usually work well in public places and it would probably be worse if you were seen here.”

“Fine,” says Arthur. 

They wend their way through the city streets, taking the paths that avoid the market crowds. Before they know it, they’re in the lower citadel, and then out and across the river, and no one has challenged them. 

At the very edge of the city, just as they reach the river that marks a sort of border between the very furthest reach of the city and the woodlands to the east, Arthur puts his hand on Merlin’s arm. “Wait, please.”

Merlin turns to look back at the same time as Arthur does. The city is beautiful as ever, the castle standing tall and proud on the mountain. There’s a steady trail of craftsmen and merchants still making their way along the road in both directions with their goods, and the wind bears the smell of wood smoke and incense. All is as it should be.

The look on Arthur’s face is one of sorrow and determination but mostly of pride, and more still that Merlin can’t interpret. 

The moment isn’t for him. Merlin looks away. 

A long moment later, Arthur reaches to touch Merlin’s arm again under the cloak. “I’m ready,” he says quietly. 

Together they walk on.


End file.
